Love through the Coldest Days
by Rothelena
Summary: Jane's relationship record has been a complete disaster these past months- just once he wants to enjoy touching someone... someone who counts. But careful, Patrick Jane: even you can't fool around with your own feelings. Rated M, right from the beginning! Angsty!
1. Chapter 1

_This is a "SURPRISE"-story- this morning I woke up and thought: well, I guess I will write something new this weekend… then I surprised myself and started this multichapter. I know where this story is going, but I haven't written more than this chapter at the moment, so I can't guarantee that I'll update every day. But: I will NEVER leave a story unfinished, so… trust me._

_This is (if I remember correctly) my first multichapter where there's sex in the first chapter, and it doesn't get much tamer- this story is definitely M, and it has a lot of angst… AAAAANNND: quite a bit of action. I guess it will be about 6 chapters long, but I can't say for sure yet._

_Tell me what you think about it!_

_Disclaimer: I don't own "The Mentalist" and I don't make money from fan fiction._

**Love through the Coldest Days**

„Alcohol is for the weak," his father had always told him, „as soon as your mind is impaired, you have lost."

Patrick Jane chuckled humorlessly and took another generous swig from the bottle, the amber-colored liquid burning all the way down his throat.

Tears were prickling in his eyes, but he could analyze the situation with hardly any emotional uproar at all, as if he were nothing but a specimen under his own microscope.

The subject's eyes keep oozing liquid. The subject is suffering.

He groaned, his head already swimming with the effect of too much alcohol, too much sadness. Fuck his mind. Fuck his dad. He didn't need any of this.

Just once, he needed the obliviousness of delirium. But that was a lie. He needed it a lot lately- this was just the first time he had decided to indulge.

He had spent the day with Loralei, making flowery declarations of the strange connection he felt with her, portraying the guy who's shocked by the depths of his own feelings to perfection- for the woman who had helped his family's killer. He shuddered in disgust. He could tell she was intrigued- of course. She was a vain peacock, a woman who liked to listen to compliments. That she believed to have cracked the shell around his heart made her soft, mellow, the sharpness gone from her face.

He couldn't even find her attractive any longer, he just felt nauseous, maybe that was what had him drinking now- everything that made him throw up brought relief these days. He was disgusted by himself, disgusted by all the lies he told, a deceiver, a cheater.

"If you're up for revenge, you can't let people see what's in your heart."

He didn't let them see. He'd always been strong and calm, and his deception had never bothered him. Every single lie had made him stronger, had shown that they couldn't get to him, couldn't touch him. No one bested Patrick Jane. It had been his one pride in a world full of shame.

Then Serious Crimes' fearless leader had come along, casually, and maybe his mistake had been that at first, he hadn't suspected her to be any kind of danger. Senior special agent Teresa Lisbon.

She had seemed so harmless, prim and proper, like a governess or schoolteacher in tough. She'd been fun, because it had been so easy to play her. He'd overlooked his own fascination with her because he'd been arrogant.

He gulped down more of the burning brandy, it was expensive stuff, and beneath all the scorching it tasted faintly sweet.

He thought of agent Lisbon and closed his eyes.

Part of him would have liked to let her see the state he was in. Sleep on her couch so she absolutely couldn't avoid finding him, reeking of alcohol and despair. She would brush her hands through his hair, scold him softly for putting himself in danger, feed him and pet him and make sure he slept.

He sighed. She would touch him. And didn't even he, a wormlike, miserable excuse for a human being deserve this touch?

He shuddered softly, the sensation felt almost like a sob, he didn't care. More alcohol, the feeling of nausea and dizziness got stronger. He pulled the dustbin close, better safe than sorry.

He slowly rubbed his hand over his stomach, even the soft cotton of his shirt chafing his uber-sensitive skin. Just once, he wanted to enjoy being touched. Wanted to have sex without the feeling that it was nothing but hard work, nothing but wrong. So far he'd kissed a cold-blooded killer who had attracted him just because he knew he couldn't have her- he wouldn't have gone near Erica Flynn if she had been available, her manipulative, immoral personality repelled him, but she had seemed like a safe experiment, a flirt that was fun and wouldn't be followed by emotions he didn't want.

But it hadn't felt good. Not as good as it had with his wife.

Sex with Loralei had been nothing but… work. Slave labor. He'd been surprised that he'd been able to find release, relieved that bio-feedback even worked in a situation like that. His body did what he wanted. It had almost been harder to fake sleep all night afterwards, to play the happy, lovesick fool next morning. To eat her eggs. When all he'd wanted was to empty his stomach into the toilet bowl- after an hour-long, scorching shower.

Wooing Loralei Martins was hell. But it was his only chance. If she didn't believe that she'd affected him, that the mysterious connection she thought they still had was something she could build upon, he had no way of getting her to talk.

So he had to do it. He shrugged. Had to do it.

Why was he suffering from his own lies all of a sudden?

It was all Teresa Lisbon's fault.

Pain lashed through him whenever he thought her name. Just once. Please.

One night in her arms. One night of true, honest pleasure. Learning what she felt like, how it felt like to be inside her.

He shivered. Once. It was all he wanted.

Another swig of alcohol brought his nausea to full bloom, and he almost welcomed the telltale clenching of his empty stomach, bowing over the dustbin while the dry heaves wrecked his body. He threw up some bile and amber liquid, he hadn't eaten in a while.

He lay in the darkness afterwards for a while, shivers coursing through his body, the longing so strong it felt like a fever.

Just one night. He would give everything for that. His whole miserable existence.

Xxxxxxxxxxx

He looked small and ill on her couch, the thin blanket covering him up to his chin.

Teresa Lisbon sighed deeply, worry for him like an old friend she had almost missed. There you are again. Haven't been away that long, have you?

She took another, thicker blanket out of the sideboard and covered him with it. She hesitated a second, before she drove her fingers through his hair, warm, fluffy curls, silky soft against her skin.

He moaned, and she raked her fingernails over his scalp, his slightly squirming movements doing strange things to her equilibrium.

"Still nauseous?" she asked softly, careful that he wouldn't be hurt by the volume of her voice, "I warn you, if you throw up on my couch, I have to paddle your sorry backside!"

He chuckled softly, his eyes huge and lost, her heart ached for him.

"You have a paddle?" he rasped.

She glared at him, but could feel the hint of a smile on her features.

"Trust me, you don't want to find out!"

He smiled and closed his eyes. The worrying came back like a tempest, driving through her insides full force. She fluffed his hair some more.

"Dammit, Patrick Jane," she whispered, "what am I going to do with you? You don't plan on making this a habit, do you?"

He opened his eyes again and looked at her. She couldn't change it- even if he behaved like an asshole, he was still her ray of sunshine. She grinned secretly at her own sappiness. Obviously, old age was catching up with her.

She could see shame in his cautious gaze and knew he thought of her father. Yeah. She had, too.

"Nah," he said, "I don't even like alcohol all that much, I swear. I just got… carried away last night. I was so… sad."

"Why, Jane?" she asked gently, "What made you so sad you got completely wasted?"

He looked away, and she felt the usual pang of defeat piercing her heart. He wouldn't tell her, she knew. She swallowed the hurt like a big girl, it was just not worth it. The pout got her nowhere, so she wouldn't bother.

"It's okay," she said, "later. So, what about the nausea?"

"Has passed." He replied slowly.

She nodded.

"Do you want some food? I have two donuts from Marie's, do you want some?"

Jane looked doubtful, but she wasn't about to give up.

"Trust me," she said, "you'll actually feel better after you ate something."

She picked the paper bag with the donuts from her desk and returned to his side, squatting down in front of the couch. She broke off a small piece of cake and handed it to him, sighing when he pressed his lips into a firm line and shook his head. She gently pressed the piece of donut against his mouth.

"Here," she said, "you'll feel better."

He took the bite from her fingers, his soft lips brushing her skin, and a jolt of sheer electricity raced through her veins. She could barely contain the shudder.

He chewed carefully, and she tousled his hair, unable to take her freaking hands off him.

A kiss would have been so easy. A gentle brush of her lips against his cheek, just a peck, like the ones good friends shared. But she knew she couldn't indulge. Because she didn't feel like a friend to him.

She closed her eyes and watched the painful swirl of emotions inside her, jealousy, worries, the bitter longing of unrequited love. She was used to it, it wasn't dangerous any longer, didn't threaten to suffocate her. If anybody knew how to live with chronic sadness, it was her. Her tough shell was fine, protecting insides so soft a breath could turn them to mush. The combination made her good, made her human, so she had stopped wishing to be different. Those were the assets she had. She could only work with them, and hell, she did. Every damn day.

She opened her eyes again and managed a smile.

"More?" she asked, and he shook his head firmly.

Lisbon nodded and got up, but when she was about to turn her back on him, she heard his voice, and when she turned, he was sitting upright.

"It's Loralei," he said, "I know you've been listening in."

She had promised not to. But it was futile to lie to him, she knew it. So she just nodded. It didn't matter anyway.

"I lie, Lisbon." He whispered. "Nothing of what I say to her is true. A deep connection? Confused feelings? My guilty attraction towards her? Lies. But I have to stroke her ego to gain her trust, it's the only way. Damn, the thought that I have let her touch…"

The sudden lurch of his stomach obviously caught him by surprise, but Lisbon saw his face paling just in time and held Marie's paper bag beneath his head. She stroked his hair while he emptied the meager contents of his stomach onto the remaining donuts. So much for breakfast.

"Damn," he cursed softly, "upset stomach- I'm usually not squeamish about selling my body for the good cause."

"And don't I know that…" she sighed, brushing her fingertips over his ghastly pale face.

"Admit it," he chuckled weakly, "you love the thought of Loralei making me throw up, don't you?"

She grinned back, shrugging.

"I don't think too much about her."

"Liar." He smiled.

So easy. A brush of lips. She needed it. But she swallowed the want, the longing, tossing the paper bag into her dustbin instead.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I'll buy new donuts."

"Forget the donuts." She said quietly.

She stood in front of her desk now, heard the faint sounds of him getting up. He came up behind her, closer, closer, and she had to force herself to take a breath, another one. Her skin was tingling all over.

She felt his fingers brush through her hair.

"You're so beautiful." He whispered, and the statement came down between them like a flood gate.

The words took a meaning they'd never had before, and she couldn't snort his compliment away, her tongue heavy, paralyzed.

"Just once," he continued, "just one night I want to have sex and actually feel it. Make it mean something. You're the woman closest to me, Lisbon. So… I would… I really want…"

She felt him pushing away from her, taking some tentative steps towards the door.

"Oh god," he said, "spoken out loud it sounds even more awful than in my mind. I'm… I'm sorry Lisbon. That was demeaning, forget I said anything. I would never use you in that way. I'm… I'm so sorry. Blame it on the hangover, yes?"

She heard him walking out of the door, his steps slow, insecure. Tears were running down her face, and like always, he took a tiny piece of her with him.

She could understand that he wanted to be touched by someone who wouldn't hurt him, wanted to feel safe just once. But she couldn't give him that, could she? Couldn't give him a few nights of casual sex, not even one night, one time. Her feelings blazed inside her blood like a solid wall of flames. No way could she ignore them. If she came close to him, she would bleed.

How brave was she? Could she do this, for him?

He'd said he wasn't squeamish about giving his body. What about her?

A touch of heaven, and then turn her back on it? The right to touch him, and then return it with a smile?

She spent the rest of the afternoon brooding, not getting a single scrap of work done.

It was already dark when she found herself surrounded by silence, the bull pen deserted, Jim waving at her on his round.

Lisbon got up slowly and with a heavy sigh, she made up her mind.

The attic was as quiet as the rest of the building, but when she approached Jane's little realm, she heard the telltale sound of a teacup rattling on its saucer.

"Lisbon," he said as soon as she had opened the door, not even needing to look at her to tell who it was, "you want a cup of tea? I made a pot. You came to talk, huh? Well, I must say I'm glad you're still talking to me…"

She stayed silent, just stared at his back. At least she could touch him, just this once.

When he turned, almost in slow-motion, she knew that he understood.

His eyes were wide, his lips trembling slightly. He shook his head, over and over again, until she stepped closer and put her fingers against his mouth to still him. She could feel his lips softly moving against her skin. He was kissing her fingertips.

She knew he didn't love her. Maybe he would never be able to love again. But suddenly, all that didn't matter. She could accept being hurt, for him.

She took her hand away and pressed her lips on his instead, licking over his shivering skin, gently pushing her tongue into his mouth.

And when his clean, masculine taste exploded inside of her, she could imagine what it would feel like to get burnt by this.

The pain horrible, crippling. And still acceptable to her.

Xxxxxxxxxx

She tasted like caramel and sunshine, and she smelled so good his senses were soaring with delight. He took his sweet time, refused to get rushed, pushing his nose against her neck, into her hair, showering her skin with kisses.

She was small, he'd always known that, but this time he paused to really feel her, the delicate bones in her tiny frame, the way she had to go on tiptoe to match their heights. He lifted her a little and felt his erection swell against her stomach without him struggling for it. He got hard just because it felt so good, and gratitude made him shake all over.

She pushed her tiny hands between their bodies and rubbed his aching length, using just the right amount of pressure to make him squirm, measuring his dimensions through his pants, increasing his arousal until his hard-on was growing out of his waistband. She unbuckled his belt and pulled his zipper down, relieving the strain on his swollen hardness. She rubbed her fingers over the tip, spreading the leaking moisture, making him slick for her ministrations.

When she started to wrap her fist around him, it felt so good he knew he wouldn't last a minute this way. He gently unclenched her hand and started to undress her, all care and slowness lost when her own hands started to reveal more and more of his naked skin, fingernails scratching over his chest, his back, arousal like a fiery lash, his hips twitching with the urge to get closer.

Her hands slid beneath his underwear, clutching his buttocks, and he moaned for all he was worth. She pushed his pants and boxers down, slowly going down on her knees. His breath caught in his throat.

She toed her shoes off and got rid of her jeans and panties, kneeling completely naked in front of him, her green eyes huge and breath-taking on her beautiful face. She was perfect. And he was hurting her so much. He knew he could never give her a happily ever after, couldn't love her the way she deserved, the way she loved him- unconditionally, soul-deep, all-encompassing.

It felt like being bathed in a warm surf, soft waves prickling on his skin, and when her mouth touched his cock, every thought drained from his mind and he let go, let go of everything, became a mess of emotions to honor her sacrifice.

Just this once, he would exist inside her touch, her kiss, drink her love for him even though he couldn't repay it. He swallowed the shame because she deserved more, deserved that he gave up control for her. He could do it. This was Teresa Lisbon, his rock, his sword, the only true friend he had. His biggest treasure. Invaluable.

She traced the pulsating vein on his length with her tongue before she sucked his glans into her mouth, the slurping noises driving him insane. She squeezed at him with her lips and swallowed him deeper, he felt himself sliding over her tongue, his noises getting loud and desperate. His hips jerked, but he didn't thrust, didn't take control, forced himself to simply take what she gave him.

His knees buckled when he felt the tip of his erection glide down her throat, he'd never felt something like this before, but she didn't gag, just angled her head and let him push deeper. The sound he made was something between a gasp and a wail, and when she swallowed, the ripples of her muscles almost made him come.

He knew he wouldn't be able to fight the climax, not as open and vulnerable as he felt right now, so he simply gave in, threw his head back and savored every sensation, every jolt of magic pleasure. Deep groans escaped his parted lips while she sucked him, the motions of her mouth stealing the rest of his sanity.

Her fingernails dug into the backs of his thighs and he came like a volcano, hot seed erupting down her throat, and the way she swallowed his seed without hesitating, drinking it like the most delicious of fluids, made him lose it completely. The climax involved his whole body, stomach muscles clenching until they ached, more and more semen spilling between her lips.

She encouraged the rocking motions of his hips by releasing his cock halfway, only to swallow him back down, again, again, milking him for every drop of juice he could spend.

He collapsed on his makeshift bed when he had finished, his still semi-hard length sliding from her mouth, and he felt her small hands against his legs, pulling off his shoes, pants, boxers. She even took off his socks, and her warm fingers felt sexy on his bare toes, a place where he hadn't been touched in ages. He grunted softly, keeping his eyes firmly closed.

The cool night air caressed his hot skin, he was naked all over, and her fingers drew patterns on his body, tracing the contours of his muscles, making them twitch beneath her touch.

When she skimmed his erection, he felt himself harden again, the lust for her swelling into something huge, almost monstrous. He let it devour him, slightly lifting his hips to encourage her. Whatever she wanted to do to him, he would accept the gift, so grateful tears sprang to his eyes.

He whispered her name into the night like a spell, banning the fear and the loneliness.

As long as she stayed with him, he was free.

She straddled his hips and he noticed that he was completely passive, but she didn't seem to mind, his hardness all she needed. She raised her hips, and the view was breath-taking, his cool superior ready to take him, swallow him like nothing but a tasty snack. He loved it, let his hands slide over her firm, pert breasts, the slim waist, muscular hips. Her buttocks were tight beneath his fingers, she was lean and strong, her muscles rippling under her smooth, pale skin.

She lifted his cock and guided him to her entrance. He forced air into his lungs, and she sat down on him, impaling herself on his huge length. She was tight, much tighter than he had thought she'd be, and he gasped from the intense friction, her core engulfing his hardness like a second skin.

Her groan was low and sexy, damn, she was so, so beautiful, why had he never really taken the time to look at her? He'd always taken her for granted, and she deserved so much more. More than he could give, as he well realized.

He swallowed the hurtful thoughts and concentrated on her instead, lifting his hips, slowly thrusting into her. She leaned forward, pushing her hands against his shoulders. She looked into his eyes, and he saw emotions run through the green, glowing pools that scared him. She was stronger than anyone he knew. Nobody would have done for him what she did right now.

She started to ride him, her movements thorough and sure, and only minutes later he was squirming with ecstasy, the sensations so intense he finally sat up, clutching her slim torso, burying his face against her breasts while he grabbed her hips, slowly guiding her up and down his length. He was so hard it hurt, and her squeezing walls around his cock hurt him more, hurt him so good he wanted to scream, pleasure, pain, all mingling inside him until he felt like bursting, he picked up speed and she did, too, riding him harder, faster, his hips thrusting upwards, his arousal so strong he felt helpless and raw.

He exploded in a rush of fiery stars the second he felt her coming, her sheath convulsing in the throes of orgasm, forcing his own release out of him. God, so TIGHT, she was strangling him, his seed bursting into her in sharp, copious jets, he could feel every single ream all over his hard length.

He filled her up, pressing his hips against hers, making her take every ounce of semen, his lips kissing the smooth skin between her breasts, releasing his shuddering moans against her flesh.

He felt the sweet aftershocks of her climax around his softening member, bone-deep satisfaction flowing through his system like soothing balm.

It had never been that perfect, that pure, and for the first time in years he felt tired enough to sleep, really sleep, the cleansing, dreamless slumber he was craving so much.

She lifted her hips, and her snug flesh resisted his retreat, trying to hold him inside. He groaned heavily. She pushed at his upper body and he sank down onto the pillow, a contented sigh wrenched from his lips.

He noticed that she simply lay down on top of him, her head resting on his chest. Her slight weight was no strain at all, and he gladly wrapped her into his arms, the world around him already fading, a distant echo.

She kissed his lips, a sweet goodnight he sucked deep into his soul, and sleep claimed him before another thought could enter his mind.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_Uhm…. Awful lot of sex scenes in this, I'm afraid….if that's not your cup of tea- I'm sorry!_

_I wrote the outline for this yesterday, and it's pretty weird. Wanna give it a chance nonetheless? Thank you so much!_

**Love through the Coldest Days**

Chapter 2

"He's as innocent as the pinkish hue of a new day, Lisbon."

He couldn't believe that she still bothered to argue with him, but she was naturally stubborn. He knew they were just pro-forma-debates, conducted to deflate his (in her opinion) widely oversized ego when it came to solving cases.

"I don't know, Jane," Lisbon said sweetly, "I like him for the murders, he's a sadist and a creep and…"

"Sure," he interrupted, "but just because you want to arrest him so much doesn't mean he's guilty. Fear not, little Lisbon- I promise you, the real killer is just as creepy and you will enjoy throwing him into the deepest hole possible oh so much."

"You already know who killed her?" she asked incredulously.

Oh his sweet, ever-doubting Lisbon.

"Of course." He said, giving her a gentle smile.

"And when did you plan to inform me of his identity?" she asked, frowning.

"Well, tomorrow," he shrugged, "around lunchtime."

Lisbon sighed in exasperation, and he felt his smile deepen, silence settling over the dark interior of her SUV. He had picked her up at her apartment two hours ago, leaving his car on her curb to join her for the interview. It was dark now, the world an ocean of gloomy shadows.

In the comfortable quiet, he became more aware of her closeness, almost as if her heartbeat was in sync with his, his body tuned to the rush of her blood. His skin hummed with desire, he couldn't stop it.

One week had gone by since they had shared the night in his attic, but the longing hadn't left him. It throbbed like an insistent demand at the back of his mind, refusing to leave him alone, grant him a modicum of peace. No peace for Patrick Jane. He was doomed to be a hunter, wanting, craving.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he felt changed, still greedy, but infinitely more daring. With a sighing, audible intake of breath, he put his hand on Lisbon's thigh.

Her skin was warm through the thin fabric, he wrapped his fingers around her flesh, wanting to feel her bare, naked in his arms. He watched her closely, saw the confusion enter her expression, opening like the petals of a flower.

Shame. He was so ashamed. He was supposed to be a friend, and all he could be was a lecherous bastard who used her love to give him a warm, fuzzy feeling.

"Jane…" she said, slightly warning, regret mingling into her voice. The innocent beginning of a brush-off, and damn, he deserved it.

He raised his hands in surrender.

She had every right to push him away, he couldn't ask for more than what she'd already given. The silence was heavy, suffocating all of a sudden, but he didn't say anything, unable to explain it. How could he explain what was inexplicable in itself?

She was the only one he trusted enough to let go. But she deserved more. Deserved to be loved the way she loved him. Oh how she deserved it.

He couldn't give her that. End of story.

He suddenly felt like crying, his lips trembling with the effort to hold the tears back, a myriad of tears, so many their force would be shattering. He couldn't release them. Ever.

When they arrived at her apartment, he was fully prepared for a more than awkward moment of goodbye. But he immediately noticed her quiet resolve, almost resembling a gesture of defeat.

She looked at him, her eyes like jewels in the nightly gloominess.

"Do you want to come inside?"

Xxxxxxxxxx

She didn't really know what she was doing. But she couldn't let him ache like this.

She had accepted this fact long ago, it was one of the miracles of her life, carved in stone and she didn't question it. Well- she seldom questioned it.

Her gaze wandered over his lips, his throat, and desire pooled inside her guts. Yes, she wanted him. Would always want him, even after they decided to end this. Despair flooded her heart, the sensation sharp and unpleasant. It would end. Sooner rather than later, and she couldn't stop the pain.

Patrick Jane would do something to finally push her away- maybe hook up with a random woman, maybe betray her trust in an even worse way. She would be hurt. Period. That was just the way things were between them.

She lifted her hand and slid her fingertips over his lips, which parted under her touch. She slipped her index finger inside his mouth, shuddering when he sucked softly.

She could read the "You don't have to" in his eyes and almost chuckled. Of course she had to. She had been doomed from the moment he had signed up with her team, she had told him as much. She just hadn't anticipated how personal things would get between them.

He nodded slowly, answering her question, and she pulled her finger back, producing a moist, smacking sound.

They left the car in silence, every movement seemed suspended in slow motion, like walking through a syrupy lake.

They stood inside her living room. She shed her jacket. He did the same.

She lifted her hands and started to unbutton his vest, his shirt, letting her hands slide under his clothes, making him moan. He didn't move at all, just looked at her as if she were a being from a different world, an apparition he couldn't fathom.

His nipples puckered when she blew on them, his breath sharp and gasping, and she wanted, needed more from him, craved the delicious loss of control he seldom allowed himself. She would get him there, she swore to herself, gently using her teeth on his skin, making him jerk.

She straightened and undressed slowly, methodically, her eyes never leaving his. Shoes, pants, blouse, underwear.

She knelt down in front of him and unlaced his shoes, pulling them off, his hands seeking balance on her shoulders.

She got up when he had stepped out of his pants and boxers, finally as naked as she was.

His eyes were calm, eerily translucent in the dimly lit room. She could see them transforming slowly, arousal seeping into the quiet green, lust dilating his pupils until they swallowed all color, like black holes intent on devouring everything.

And then he went wild.

He grabbed her so fast she shrieked, lifting her with a force that made her fingertips go cold in shock.

He climbed thestairs to her bedroom in a few vigorous strides, holding her tightly in his arms, his hot body burning against hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held onto him, wishing she could stop time and space for a small bubble of happiness.

He tossed her onto the bed, knocking the breath out of her for a moment, and was on her immediately, covering her small frame like a dark shadow.

"Spread your legs," he growled, but she wasn't fast enough and he did it, gripping her thighs to make her open up wide.

He pushed down, entering her in a fast, furious stroke, and Lisbon cried out, a violent shiver running through her body.

He was so huge, stretching her so wide it bordered on pain, her sex unable to accommodate him for a few seconds. The wildness in his eyes made her hot, wetter, until he managed to thrust. He took her deep, in fast, powerful strokes, grunting every time he made impact.

Her nerve endings detonated into small, fiery balls, the sensations so sharp she came almost immediately, her whole body cramping under the sheer force of her release. Jane managed to go on, his thrusts hard, pounding, the whole bed rattling beneath her.

In his mad, greedy eyes she saw what it did to him, and it almost scared her, sweat was dripping from his face, his hair disheveled. He groaned her name, again, again, like a mantra, a hypnotic song that burned itself into her mind until her body hummed to its rhythm, quaking beneath his ruthless thrusting.

She saw it the second he gave up, his mouth falling open, a shocked, strangled sound escaping. He went rigid, and when she reached up to touch his face she felt the first jet of seed shoot inside her, filling her with his warmth.

He came loudly, violently, squirming, crying, cursing. The force of his ejaculation triggered several small orgasms inside her, each one sharper than the next, shooting pleasure through her system, burning her insides like exploding stars.

"Patrick," she gasped, and he wailed as if he were in pain, his body collapsing on hers.

He cried, his whole body quivering from the heavy sobs, and she realized that she had never seen him cry before, had never seen him break down like this. She wrapped her arms around him, firmly, ignoring the strain of his weight on her small frame.

She shushed him softly, stroking his hair while his tears wet the skin of her chest.

When he finally calmed down, his crying reduced to some slight sniffling, he rolled to his side, and she took a deep breath before she followed suit, lying down on her side, facing him.

His eyes were red, his face wet. She kissed the tears away, one by one, with infinite patience, so, so tender. He carefully scooted closer, and she hugged him to her like she would a small child.

The room was dark, and he became gradually quieter in her arms.

Sorrow covered her skin like grease. They couldn't keep this up. It was like driving against a wall, full-speed, wide-eyed. Unstoppable, a freight train racing into the big, numb nothing after crashing through the iron gates of hell.

It already hurt, and she wondered how much stronger the pain would become when the chips came down, how awfully she would suffer from this, from him. She sighed. She had to have a masochist streak a mile wide. Like a dry river bed, the Grand Canyon carved into her heart.

His breath flowed against her skin. She bowed down and kissed his ear, tracing the shell with her tongue.

Sleep well, Patrick Jane. And don't dream. Never dream.

She knew he hated his dreams.

And Lisbon closed her eyes and dreamed of a lakeside in the midst of summer, her hand in his, his blinding smile just for her. Dreamed of being a naïve little princess in a fairytale fantasy, as different from real life as she could imagine it.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Patrick Jane traced the rim of his teacup with his index finger.

He had to stop. This had been going much too far already, he couldn't allow agent Lisbon to turn him into a bawling idiot. There were things he had to do, like making Loralei talk as soon as possible, and he couldn't effort getting wrapped up in an affair like this right now.

He had to stop touching her, at all.

He looked in the direction of her office for the umpteenth time and saw her talking with agent Nichols from narcotics. Mr. dark, tall, and handsome.

He hated the sharp pang of anger, of despair that was piercing his heart before he could stop it.

He was obsessed with the fear that Lisbon could find Mr. Right in front of his eyes, make him watch her fall in love with another man.

He was petty and mean. She SHOULD fall in love with another man. He should make her, present her the perfect fiancé, a trustworthy, warm-hearted man who would place the world at her feet.

He watched Nichols out of narrowed eyes, hate eating at his heart.

His stomach clenched when she smiled, laughed at one of the fellow agent's jokes. She was so beautiful when she laughed. Just as beautiful as when she pouted. Or glared.

He sighed miserably and took another sip of his lukewarm tea.

Truth was, he wanted her. Wanted to hold her, to kiss her, to make her his just once more. But he knew he could never stop at once more. So he should stop now. For good.

He spend the rest of the afternoon on his couch, his tea turning from cold to stale, darkness infusing the room as the hours crept by.

Grace said goodbye, then Rigsby. Cho was last, waving a short greeting, and silence settled upon the bullpen.

Jane put the cup of tea down and got up.

TBC

_Next chapter up soon! Twists and turns ahead! This is not as easy as it looks so far. Thank you so much for your feedback! AAAANND (little warning): this story stays M!_

_It's my eldest daughter's birthday today, and my second daughter's on Sunday, and we have a big shopping-trip planned for Saturday, so the next chapter might not arrive before Tuesday… Sorry! I try to write as fast as I can. This is not the best time to post a multichapter, but I guess it won't be a work of genius anyway… but Ill be forever grateful if you go on reading! THANK YOU!_


	3. Chapter 3

_Contrary to the last angsty story, "Angel Mine", this isn't a very contemplative story, and in this chapter, a lot of things simply happen…_

_And, a fair warning: after this chapter, we have a teeny weeny thriller plot- and I am SUPER-BAD at writing those, so logical inconsistencies are to be expected! Again, I will not reveal Red John's identity, although everybody in the story knows who he is._

**Chapter 3**

As soon as Jane stepped over her threshold, she saw that he was pissed.

She sighed in exasperation, stopped herself from burying her face in her hands. She didn't need this. Didn't need it at all. She had spent her whole life trying to avoid emotional turmoil as good as she could, it made her slow and ineffective.

And then came Patrick Jane.

"Jane?" she asked slowly.

He shrugged and looked at her, masking any emotion behind a wall of nonchalant arrogance.

"Oh, I don't know," he drawled, "I thought you might be interested in catching a killer. I doubt that the handsome detective Nichols could provide valuable input on that."

Lisbon closed her eyes. Opened them slowly.

"Do you love me, Jane?"

"No."

The answer came fast, almost too fast. But it stung nonetheless, and her tongue felt dry for a moment, sticking to her gums. She knew he could clearly read her feelings for him on her face, in her liquid eyes, and it made the whole thing all the more unfair.

Why could she never go for easy and uncomplicated? It just wasn't in the cards for her, obviously.

Like happiness in general. They were pretty similar in that.

"Then I don't see why detective Nichols is any of your business," she said.

He stared at her, and she saw something livid flare in his crystal green eyes. He got a grip immediately, his surface cooling into sheer ice. She almost got frostbite at the other end of the room.

"No," he said, shrugging again, "he isn't, you're right. I can see the attraction. He's a capable breadwinner, and a talented stud, I'm sure. And you're not getting any younger, so I get the fear of being left on the shelf…"

"Jane," she hissed, getting up threateningly, approaching him as imposing as her small stature allowed, "stop it, right now! I see what you're doing- trying to piss me off…"

He was so close suddenly, she could taste his breath, the faint whiff of mint from his toothpaste, the scent of his skin. His nose was almost touching hers.

"Is it working, Lisbon?" he growled, "Are you pissed?"

"Why do you have to hurt everyone just to push them away, Jane?" she snarled, "Why can't you allow yourself a piece of happiness once in a while…"

"Shut up!" he barked, "You know full well I don't deserve it! How do you dare to ask that of me, and stop looking at me like that, with your large, solemn, sad eyes…"

And before he could finish the sentence, his lips descended on hers.

Xxxxxxxxxx

NO! His mind was screaming at him. But he couldn't really hear anything, the blood rushing in his veins, need for her pulsating like a battle drum.

God, she tasted good, so good, her small frame trembled in his arms, he clutched her tighter.

She shoved her little tongue into his mouth and he sucked on it, hard, before he pushed at it with his own, fighting it like a deathly enemy.

His fingers, clumsy with desire, opened the button on her slacks, the soft fabric sliding down her legs. He took a deep breath and ripped her panties off, the sound of rending cloth loud and satisfying in the silent office. The blinds weren't closed, but he didn't care. There was no one around, and even if they were caught- should the whole world watch them, he didn't give a damn.

He swiped the stuff from her desk, sparing nothing but her computer screen, sitting her down on the bare tabletop. He felt a soft rise of resistance in her body, drowned it with biting, passionate kisses.

His hands fumbled with his belt, his zipper, he couldn't form a clear thought, needed to be inside her right now. His cock was hard, so hard it hurt like hell, it made him furious, so needy that tears sprang to his eyes. What did she do to him, he had to stop, couldn't get irrational in times like these, her skin felt wonderful, soothing, her sex wet, drenched with arousal for him.

"Patrick." She whispered into his mouth, and it drove him insane, nobody said his name like she did, as if he meant the world, held all the magic of her universe in his hands.

He shut her up with his mouth, thrusting his tongue deep, drinking her essence. Damn, he should stop, push her away for good, but he couldn't, and before the thought could form in his mind, he had shoved his length into her, her excruciating tightness squeezing his erection like a velvety fist. He groaned, shuddered, drove in to the hilt.

He spread her legs wide, made her recline on the desk, their lips parting with an audible smack.

Jane closed his eyes, his hips already pumping, taking her fast and hard, her body bouncing under the force of his thrusts. He held her knees apart while he fucked her in a fast, relentless rhythm, pouring his lust and despair and anger into every vigorous stroke.

He gritted his teeth, so many feelings he didn't even know where to put them, her body arched beneath him, and the vise-like clutch of her sex became even tighter. She convulsed with the force of her orgasm, his groin rubbed her clit every time he surged into her, prolonging the violent throes of her release. She cried out, the sound sweet, liberating to his ears, his thrusts became erratic, and he felt his balls draw close to his body.

He moaned and gave in, didn't even try to stop it, his stomach clenching when the first stream of seed entered her body. More and more he came, long, sating spurts, hot and wet, filling her up.

He looked down, saw his cock covered in their combined juices, pushed in again, shuddering with pleasure and delight and hate for his own weakness.

He would stop. He would pull back. He had to.

He pushed his hips against hers as hard as he could, emptying the last spill of his semen, until he felt spent, hollow.

He pulled out, almost shocked by what he had done, by the power she had over him. He'd never wanted to let it come to this, didn't need this, the distraction, the confusing emotions.

His breath was sharp, acute, and something hurt deep inside, something he used to protect fiercely. The walls were gone, and he felt naked and exposed.

He dressed in record time and fled her office, leaving her without looking back.

Xxxxxxxxxx

When she had re-established the order on her desk, her foolish tears had almost dried.

It was her fault. Why in hell hadn't she slapped him the second he had started to kiss her? She felt like slapping him now, left and right, until his skin was red and swollen. She wanted to hurt him like he hurt her, just once, dammit.

She flopped down on her chair and rubbed her hands over her face, once, twice, until she felt control returning in small, welcome doses. She could do this, she did before.

When she looked up, there was someone in her office, and it wasn't Jane.

"Well, if that's not CBI's most beautiful agent," Walter Mashburn smiled, "you look breathtaking, Teresa."

Talk about things she didn't need.

"Walter," she exclaimed, struggling for this smile she knew she once had, "what are you doing here this late at night?"

He looked good. Dressed as impeccably as always, designer jeans, dark sweater. Carrying a bunch of red roses he now handed to her, his smile deepening.

She accepted them, almost grateful when a thorn pricked her finger. Pain would help her focus.

"I'm in town for business," he said, "but I thought I could combine that with pleasure, and I couldn't wait to see you. Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night?"

God, no.

She shivered, feeling cold and lost all of a sudden. She didn't want to do this.

"Walter Mashburn!" a cheerful voice thundered from the door, and her world came tumbling down.

Jane stood there, beaming, all charming conman. Fake smile, fake good mood. She closed her eyes.

Walter shook Jane's hand, looking honestly delighted to see him. They were behaving like old friends, and she didn't envy Walter for getting entangled in this.

Why don't you just go? She silently begged.

Obviously, Walter could read her thoughts just fine.

"Well," he said, "I'll leave you two to the ropes of law enforcement- think about my offer, Teresa, please? I'll call you tomorrow."

He nodded in her direction, and she felt a lump the size of Texas forming in her throat, stopping any words from emerging.

She just nodded back, feeling like an imbecile.

She heard Walter's steps, slowly receding to the lift. The doors whooshed open. And then, only silence remained.

Jane was staring at his shoes.

The speechlessness was deafening, and Lisbon felt herself getting itchy, nervous.

"You should go out with him, Lisbon," Jane said eventually, "it will be good for you. You need a real man to get over me."

She chuckled humorlessly.

"Another one-night-stand with a billionaire to purge you out of my system? Do you really think I'm as shallow as that?"

"There's nothing wrong with treating you to beautiful things from time to time," he shrugged, "and maybe he will become more than a one-night-stand."

She looked at him, saw the mask slip for a moment, and there was so much hurt on his face. As if he wanted to scream all the time, and it took all of his effort not to give in to the urge.

She didn't bother with a reply. Maybe he didn't understand the concept of love any longer. Maybe he refused to understand. It didn't matter.

She loved him like mad, and her stupid feelings didn't ask for her opinion. She would carry this love for him around for the rest of her life, and she had no doubts it would get heavier and heavier every year.

She almost wished he would stay silent, but she knew he couldn't. The final words needed to be said. She looked at him. How beautiful he was when he allowed honesty onto his face. The moments so rare.

She saw the mask sliding back over his face, a hint of fake boredom entering his eyes. She realized that it might hurt him as much as it hurt her. But that didn't make it any better.

She braced herself.

"Go out with him, Lisbon," he said, "I don't love you. What we had is over. I'm sorry I let it come to this- you are my friend, and I used you for my own selfish needs. You have every right to hate me. Go out with Mashburn, have a wonderful evening, a great night. You deserve it, and he's a marvelous guy. I won't approach you again. Goodnight."

She closed her eyes and swore she would never open them again. She would simply freeze, become a statue, until cobwebs and dust covered her whole life, and she could just vanish into the next dimension without making a fuss.

Xxxxxxxxxx

She felt so uncomfortable in her own skin that she almost jumped up, excused herself and hid inside the bathroom for the rest of the night.

The restaurant was fancy and expensive, of course, the waiters tripping over their own feet in their undying wish to read every demand from Walter Mashburn's eyes. The big master was in a great mood, showing grand gestures, virtually throwing money into the air without a care in the world.

Her black gown felt like an alien skin, she wanted to get rid of it. Wanted to sit in front of the TV in her oldest underwear, weeping into a bowl of ice cream. She smiled secretly to herself. She was becoming a soap opera's petty character. Lovesickness on Friday night. She felt like thirteen again.

Conversation was pleasant, and she almost thought she'd fooled him alright. Although the flirty small talk was dropping from her tongue like beads of lead. She had no feeling at all. Felt numb to the bones.

But her skin seemed to be slightly hot, and she had to suppress a cough from time to time. She sighed. What a perfect time to come down with something. Her life was a mess anyway.

Walter reclined in his chair and sighed heartily.

"Well," he drawled good-naturedly," I have the feeling I won't be getting laid tonight."

She looked at him, her eyebrows rising. Laughter burst out of her, ending in a violent cough. Damn, her lungs hurt.

"Well," she said, smiling, "unless you don't have another chick in line- I'm afraid that's true."

He chuckled at that, but his gaze was warm and thoughtful.

"We had fun last time, Teresa. What changed?"

Yes. What changed? Hell had frozen over. She'd had sex with Patrick Jane.

"I fell in love." She whispered.

He shrugged, sipping sinfully expensive wine from his glass.

"You were already in love the last time we met."

She stared at him, fascinated. Okay- so maybe she had underestimated him grossly.

"You knew?" she asked incredulously.

He leaned closer, his intense gaze holding her captive.

"I might not be a Patrick Jane, but I'm not a billionaire for my stupidity. It was unmistakable. And your pupils never dilated for ME. It was him your eyes were checking out all the time."

She smiled, but it felt like acid on her face. Here she was- transparent like glass, obviously. Her heart ached, a dead muscle inside her chest, trying to revive itself by producing scorching pain. She needed to cry. Needed it bad. But her eyes stayed stubbornly dry.

"How come the great Patrick Jane never realized that, huh?" she whispered sadly. Suspended in time. This feeling would never go away, the hurt, the useless craving. It was almost second nature to her by now.

"Believe me," Walter said softly, "he did. He just wasn't ready to acknowledge it."

That made her laugh, bitterly. What was she doing here? In this dress, play-acting a normal life she would never have?

She coughed some more, damn, she was getting sick. Her lungs were on fire.

"He still isn't, Walter." She rasped, " I don't think he ever will be."

He took her hand, but the gesture was chaste, the touch of a friend. She didn't feel anything, not even a faint tingle. She almost regretted it, she felt so dead inside. It would just be nice to have anything to hold onto for a while.

"Well, and that's the risk we take every time we love." He said. "That's why I stopped a long time ago."

She smiled.

"Why did you have sex with me if you knew I was in love with another man?"

He released her hand and shrugged, smiling mischievously.

"I didn't hear you say no. And, my dear: I would never have had sex with you if you had been in love with ME. Much too complicated. Why did YOU have sex with me, being in love with another man?"

She groaned and closed her eyes. She had been daring and naïve, still convinced she could play cool and unaffected when she just tried hard enough.

"I guess I just wanted to prove myself that I'm not stupid enough to have fallen in love with Patrick Jane," she said, defeat painting her soul a darker shade.

Walter chuckled.

"Didn't work out that brilliantly, huh?"

"Nope." She smiled, "Not at all."

They laughed together, until she started to cough again, fire spreading through her bronchia with every wheeze of air.

Life. What a mess.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Lorelei smiled at Jane, the usual mixture of deception and affection, but he knew immediately when she lied to him, and this time, she hadn't. He forced himself to smile back, sweetly, putting feelings into his gaze that couldn't be farther from the truth. She'd done it.

Given him the first piece of information he didn't have before, and he almost felt himself drawing closer. Red John. I'm this short of finding you. His nemesis was nearby, he could almost sense his presence.

He ended the interview in the usual way, attempting to touch Lorelei, knowing full well the watchman would stop him before he could make contact.

"No touching!" The buff giant thundered, and Jane smiled regretfully at Red John's deadly beautiful little helper.

He retreated to his attic as fast as he could, brooding, thinking. What had she revealed so far? He stood in the unbearably slow lift, watching the dim lights above him. She'd told him quite a bit. His mind should be able to do some magic with this, dammit.

He leaned his head against the cool wall of the small cabin. His mind couldn't do any magic because it was occupied, if he didn't stop them, his thoughts wandered back to Teresa Lisbon, over and over again.

She hadn't slept with Mashburn, he could see it from afar, and he was so grateful his knees buckled in relief whenever he thought about it. He couldn't bear the images of her with someone else, touching her, feeling what he had in her arms. He knew it was wrong, knew he had no right to watch her as his, not when he denied her his heart, but he couldn't help it. He simply couldn't tolerate it.

He liked Walter Mashburn, but he was so, so infinitely glad that she had rejected him, the feeling was as strong as his shame.

He closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. Focus, Jane. Red John. He's your main interest, remember?

He walked up to his little room at the top of CBI headquarters when he noticed a change. Someone had been here recently, maybe just seconds ago. The rusty bucket in the hallway was not at its usual place, dust indicating the spot where it usually stood.

Lisbon? No- she would have waited for him. She never shied away from a confrontation, wasn't a hider at all.

He opened his door cautiously, but found the room completely empty. He'd been careful not to build any niches where someone could hide. But when he looked down, he noticed a small piece of paper, neatly folded in the middle.

Dread was creeping all over his insides while he unfolded it and read the words.

"Well done, Patrick. I always knew you would crack her. But since you have taken my woman, let's ramp up our game. I'll see you soon."

The red smiley face almost glowed in the half-darkness of the attic.

Jane's breathing accelerated, whitish puffs in the cold air. His skin prickled.

Lisbon. He had to show her this.

Together, they would find him. Red John was inside the building.

He was one of them.

TBC

_So… you want to see Jane eating the humble pie? Read on then…_


	4. Chapter 4

_Okay, things are getting weird now, don't complain… no really, I'm not the mistress of crime fiction, please forgive me… I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. A little ;D._

Chapter 4

„If Red John is one of us, Jane," Lisbon said calmly, folding her hands in front of her, „it's most likely that he knows how close you are to catching him. That makes him unbelievably dangerous. What if he decides he's done playing games with you? What if he decides it's time to kill you now? We have to protect you, Jane. That's absolutely paramount."

"Finding Red John is not an intellectual pastime, Lisbon," Jane replied, "to catch him, I have to get close to him. I don't care if he kills me, as long as you catch him, I told you that before. And I am able to protect myself- I don't need a babysitter. I just need you to back me up so I can set a trap."

She shook her head, her dark hair swishing around her head. She was so beautiful it almost hurt him physically. But she also looked tired, worn.

"You are under observation until we know who he is." She said.

"The observation will push him away from me, Lisbon," Jane pressed out between gritted teeth, "and if he's CBI, he will most likely know that he can't catch me."

"What if he catches you before we are prepared for him?"

"I can defend myself against him, Lisbon," he whispered, "he doesn't want me dead."

"You're wrong," she answered urgently, "you are not rational when it comes to Red John. He's your biggest weakness, and I can't let him use this against you. Protecting you is more important than catching Red John."

"No!" he cried out, "Lisbon, it's NOT, I explained it to you a hundred times…"

"I won't sacrifice you for the catch," she said firmly, "you'll go nowhere alone. I don't care if the killer pulls back because of our surveillance. We'll get our chance, and as soon as we know who he is, we'll get him. Please, Jane, don't try to do this alone."

Jane looked at her. She had dark rings beneath her eyes, her face was flushed, and her voice sounded hoarse and raw.

"Are you alright, Lisbon?" he asked, frowning.

She nodded weakly.

"I am," she said, "it's just a cold, I'm fine. Don't do anything rash, yes? We can't let him catch you. The moment he got you, we have no way of controlling him. Please, Jane."

He nodded. It was her biggest flaw- the feelings. She just loved him too much, couldn't see that catching the killer was more important than he could ever hope to be.

"Okay," he said, "I'm in the attic, trying to guess his identity."

He left the room fast, scared that she would be able to read the truth in his eyes. She had become much too perceptive when it came to him- he urgently needed to escape the entanglement. Too bad he had no one but her.

His chest hurt all of a sudden, and he rubbed the sore spot with a grimace.

Sometimes he almost thought his true nemesis was Teresa Lisbon, with her soft, soulful eyes and the small, strong hands.

The only one who was tough enough to bring him down.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon closed her eyes. She felt awful, but it couldn't be helped. With Lorelei in custody, she was needed here. No time for sick leave.

She took her cell phone out, noticing that her vision was blurry. Damn, she was not equipped to deal with this mess at the moment.

"Cho?" she said when he said his name on the other end of the line,"Jane is about to get into trouble- I think he wants to provoke a personal meeting with Red John, and if Red John sees him as a serious danger, he might want to finish him off. 24 hours of surveillance, my orders- you and Rigs take the first shift, okay?"

Cho acknowledged, and she ended the call. Her breath was wheezing inside her lungs, her head so heavy she could hardly stay upright.

When she opened her eyes, Grace stood in the doorway.

"You need to see a doctor, boss."

Lisbon smiled at her, but it didn't even feel convincing.

"It's just a cold," she said, "but maybe I should go home and try to get some sleep."

Grace nodded slowly.

"If you get a fever, go and see a doctor, boss. A cold can easily develop into something much less funny."

Lisbon grimaced- she already had a fever, could feel the unpleasant, itchy heat spreading all through her body.

"I'll keep it in mind," she said, "I think I just need some rest."

Grace returned to her desk to grab her bag and head out, and Lisbon took a moment to look at the dark city beyond the bullpen windows.

Jane, she thought. Please, take care of yourself and don't be so damn stupid.

She knew it was futile. He was totally irrational when it came to his vendetta, and she was so scared that one day, it really would get him killed.

Sadness was pouring down on her like acid rain. The air between them had turned chilly after his brush-off, and they hadn't touched since that fateful night. Teresa Lisbon was used to soldiering on alone, she had never been dependent and clingy, but she missed him.

Missed the banter, the smiles, his sweet teasing. Pain made her bite her lip. She wanted to hold him, just for a few minutes, everything would be alright then. But she knew it was nothing but a lie. It could never be enough, and what she really wanted, she could never find.

She sighed and returned to her office, hesitating when her gaze fell on Lorelei's file on her desk. She took it and put it in her bag. Maybe she would get some work done after she'd had a short nap. They had to unmask Red John before he could make a move on Jane- she was absolutely sure that he was in grave danger from the killer at the moment. He had made Lorelei talk, and it was unpredictable how long it would take him to find out who the serial killer was.

Patrick Jane's mind was marvelous, but the urgency he showed when he dealt with Red John might slow him down.

She grabbed her bag and left the building.

Traffic was unspectacular, but her head hurt like hell now, and the fever was like a humming rhythm whipping through her system. Maybe she wasn't fit for driving, she wouldn't use the car again until she felt considerably better.

She was relieved when she arrived at her apartment, every little sound unnaturally loud now, the clap of her door, the bark of a dog across the street. She touched the Glock at her side. Were there steps behind her?

She heard the faint echo on the pavement through the haze of fever and headache, pulled the weapon with trembling hands, realizing in a moment of quiet horror that she was too late. Someone pressed a cloth onto her nose, a medicinal smell filled her senses, she tried to kick back, but the powers left her body swiftly and inky darkness invaded her vision so fast she couldn't fight it.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Jane couldn't believe how stupid he'd been.

It had taken him only half an hour to get rid of Cho and Rigsby, who were still waiting in front of his house in Malibu, assuming he was sleeping beneath the faded remnants of Red John's bloody smiley.

He had guessed that the killer wanted to talk to him, taunt him some more, scare him away as good as he could, but when Red John had actually shown his face, he'd known that he had made a crucial mistake.

At that time, he had already known who he was, and ages of pain and hatred had crashed over him in a giant wave. The image to kill him on his own had been too delicious, Lisbon had been right: his only weakness.

But his physical strength was limited, and Red John was a law enforcement officer. He had overwhelmed him and tossed him into a hole somewhere no one would look for him, had left him to starve.

He had left some water, though, which had surprised Jane. Did he want the whole process to take longer? Probably. He groaned in bitter defeat-

Jane was ready to die. He leaned his head against the moist walls, looked at the heavy bars covering the tiny, glassless window on the far wall. A thin ray of sunlight spiraled into the gloomy cool of the basement.

He had tried to look out of the window, but a giant, rusty water tank next to it prevented a clear view, only a small strip of street was visible. It was enough to tell him he was in a part of the city where human beings where a scarce occurrence.

He heard the faint clapping of a car door, his senses going on full alert. He had no weapon, and Red John would most likely enter the room with a drawn gun. Jane had no intentions to die right now- as long as he was alive, he might find a way to get out of this mess.

He knew who Red John was. He just needed to get out of here, and he could move in for the kill. The monster had taken his cell phone, of course, but maybe it was possible to get a message to Lisbon some other way…

He tried to calm down when the door opened, tuning his senses to see, notice everything, take in every little detail that might help him.

His fingernails went cold with shock when Red John grinned at him and tossed his freight into the middle of the room. Lisbon.

No.

She couldn't be dead, he wouldn't survive the pain, crashing through his veins like searing fire. Not her. Anyone, but not her.

"You might wonder why I don't kill you immediately," Red John said slowly, "call me sentimental, but I love the sweetness of this situation- I always adored Romeo and Juliet. The star-crossed lovers. Imagine how good you could have been together if you had just met in another life, another dimension. Too sad, huh? I shall enjoy the images in my mind, of you two fighting for your life for a few more days. Be careful, there are some rather aggressive rats here which come out at night. The water should last you for about five or six more days. But, I'm no monster."

His chuckle told Jane he knew how much of a lie that was.

The killer walked to the door, backwards, slowly. Jane knew he couldn't overpower him. Not even his hate made him strong enough. So he tried to use his eyes, his senses. It was almost impossible, his eyes wandering back to Lisbon's still form again and again. Was she breathing?

Please, he thought, whoever is listening, save her. I ask for nothing more- just save her.

"If you want to finish the whole thing before the time," Red John said, "I'll leave you agent Lisbon's gun. Two bullets, Jane, one for her, one for you. Use them wisely."

He opened the door and stepped out, tossing the weapon into the room a fraction before he closed the door behind him. Jane lunged for it, but thought again when he touched the cool metal of the shiny Glock.

The madman was right. The door was rusty, but solid metal, bullets might not be able to penetrate it. Could he shoot the lock open?

Later, Lisbon was more important now.

He crouched down next to her, rearing back when the heat of her skin registered. Damn, she sported a high fever. She had looked sick when he had approached her about Red John this afternoon, and he had decided not to inquire further, too busy with his hunt. Damn, he had bungled the whole thing big time.

"Lisbon," he whispered softly, saw her eyelids flutter, and relief and pain and sadness rushed through his heart like a flash flood. He almost couldn't bear the onslaught of emotion, so he doubled over and waited until the initial shock passed, using bio feedback to get his mind back on track eventually. He was responsible for her now, he couldn't afford to lose it.

He took off his jacket, folded it several times and put it beneath her head, touching her scorching hot forehead with gentle fingers.

Oh god. He had to get her out of here before the hunger or the fever would kill her.

When she opened his eyes, he almost sobbed with gratitude.

"Jane," she whispered, her voice hoarse from the chemicals she had inhaled as well as the sickness, "where are we?"

"I wish I knew that," he replied, "a damp basement in some unused part of the town. Windows are barred, the door rusty, but massive. Some kind of store room, I guess. He left us your weapon- with two bullets. He wants to force me to kill you. Or you me. He doesn't care, it's the anguish that nourishes him. Do you see any chance of shooting the lock open with only two bullets?"

Lisbon groaned.

"He's not an idiot, Jane. He wouldn't have left us the gun if there were any way we could use it to get free. At least the obvious choices are out."

She was right, of course.

The night was hot and humid, but Lisbon started to shake, dry heaves wrecking her small frame. Jane lay down next to her and pulled her into his arms, warming her with his body.

"You are really, really sick, Teresa," he whispered softly, but she didn't react, unconscious from the fever.

Damn, he was scared. There was not a single thought inside his mind, only: she can't die. No matter what he did- he couldn't let her die.

He tore a strip from his shirt and drenched it in water, using it to cool her blazing forehead.

She looked so small, the freckles on her skin a stark contrast against her utter paleness. Her beauty awed him, he had never really given it much thought, but lately he couldn't stop watching her. She was all that gave him hope at the end of the day. And he simply had to save her.

He started to walk around the room for the umpteenth time, watching every single detail, searching for loose bricks, crumbling plaster, anything that indicated a weak spot in the structure. He found nothing. The bars on the window seemed to reach far into the concrete, didn't give way the fraction of an inch. Jane wasn't surprised- Red John might be a sick bastard, but he wasn't an amateur.

He pushed his head against the metal bars and willed his mind to work, to function. And for a second, all the suffering that marked his existence dissolved into the urge to save Teresa Lisbon.

TBC

_As I said- I'm no crime writer, so please, don't hold that against me-it might not be terribly logical, but I always do what I have to in order to get the emotions across. Next chapter up TOMORROW, I mean in….uhm…. 15 hours._


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Somewhere in the night, Teresa went into a state of delirium. Nightmares chased each other, and Jane was awake all the time to comfort her, whispering sweet nothings just so she could hear his voice, kissing her dry, fevered skin.

How long could she hold on with this temperature?

She coughed horribly, and later that day, a few drops of blood started to graze the strips of his shirt he used to cool her down. He fought to keep the desperation at bay, he couldn't give up now.

He told her stories, sang softly to her, getting naked when he couldn't soothe her chill through his clothes any longer. He held her close, as close as possible, as if that would keep her with him, would stop her from dying.

He made her drink lots of water while he took just enough to go on- he had to think of a way to get them out of here.

He drenched a new strip of his shirt in the lukewarm water and put it on her forehead. Her skin was scorching hot. God, why couldn't he think of something.

"Jane?" she croaked hoarsely.

"Teresa," he replied, touching her face with his cool fingers, letting his thumb glide over her parched lips. He bowed down, diminishing the distance to be able to hear her weak, small voice.

"I want to tell you what Angela couldn't" she whispered, "although I know that I don't mean to you what she did. If something happens to me, Jane, promise you try to find happiness. Don't feel guilty, you could have done nothing to prevent this. It's his fault, not yours. Promise me you will overcome the past. Please, Jane, it's time."

He smiled through his tears, carefully containing the sobs that needed to break free.

"We're in this together, Teresa," he said softly," I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you. We will most likely die here, both of us."

She pouted slightly, her eyes glazed by the fever.

"I want you safe and happy." She said, and there was a heart-felt urgency beneath the strain of the sickness.

Safe and happy. It was like a summary under the time they had spent together. She had always fought to keep him safe. Always longed to see him happy again.

"Teresa," he whispered and pulled her closer, softly nuzzling her hair. He felt a measure of tenderness and compassion he hadn't felt in eons, and he just couldn't hold her close enough. For once, he wanted to be more than he'd been since his family had died, more than the sum of his parts, more than a machine programmed for destruction. For her, he wanted to defy his fate.

But he knew he couldn't. His path was drawn into the dust, and he could do nothing but follow it.

He kissed her forehead, her skin burning against his lips.

Hold on, Teresa. I can't go on without you. Hold on.

The evening found him at the window again. The air was stale, stifling hot, the huge water tank blocking fresh air from reaching their little basement cell. He watched the small piece of street he could see, pretty sure no human soul had walked this road today. They were in some godforsaken ghost town.

His stomach churned with hunger, but he ignored it. When he stepped closer to the bars to catch any breeze the air carried, he suddenly noticed a car on the small strip of street he could see. A police car on patrol, slowly driving along the road.

On instinct, he started to scream for help at the top of his lungs, but the car drove by without even stopping. Sure, it was hot, the windows would be closed to allow air condition to work properly , maybe the officers listened to music. Like Rigsby, who always had thundering rock music blaring when he drove the car.

He went to Teresa and looked at her watch- 6 o'clock p.m.

Returning to the window he stood there, brooding, tapping a finger against his lip.

What if the police car came here every evening? Maybe they had a chance to get their attention. But how?

Simply shooting into the air was out. He had no idea how loud it really was inside the car, and if the policemen didn't hear the shots, they had wasted their precious bullets. He couldn't have that.

He groaned in frustration and pushed his hand through the bars. But all he could touch was the darn water tank, the metal worn and rusty. A "Danger"-sign was attached to the side, almost falling off due to old age. Jane pulled his hand back and frowned when he looked at his fingertips. They were wet. And it hadn't rained in weeks.

There was still water in the tank, he noticed when he looked a little closer. A steady rivulet was leaking from the metal screws, the material permeable after decades without maintenance.

How much water could still be in the tank? What if it was open, to collect the rain water? No… they possibly wouldn't do this, it could overflow after a heavy downpour- but what if that didn't matter, because nobody was living here, and all the industry had left?

It might be their only chance.

He looked for any weak spots at the structure, and immediately saw a rusty hatch some feet away, almost falling off its hinges. He saw wetness around it, but it still managed to hold somehow.

Jane sat down next to Teresa and started calculating. They were close enough to the street- a considerable amount of water flowing from the tank should arouse the officers' attention… if he managed to open the hatch at the exact time the patrol car drove by.

They had two bullets- enough to shoot the door off its hinges, he was sure. But the hatch was exactly at the tank's bend, and that was the problem- he would never, never hit the hinges. He wasn't an expert shooter. Okay, he was far less than that. He could fire a gun if he had to, but in this case, he would almost certainly miss his target. And if he didn't manage to cause a considerable flow of water, the bullets would be lost.

He looked at Teresa, sleeping a restless, feverish slumber.

She wouldn't miss. She was the expert gunwoman. But she was so sick she couldn't see straight. He groaned. They had to try it, it might be their only chance, and he had to get her out of her as fast as possible.

She was coughing blood, he guessed she suffered from a severe case of pneumonia. Despair settled in his heart, the pain so strong he had to close his eyes against the onslaught. All the missed chances rose before his inner eye, all the things he should have done. He should have trusted her even more than he already did. Should have hurt her less.

He lay down next to her on the cold, damp floor and pulled her into his arms. He wore nothing but his boxer shorts, and her heat felt searing on his skin. He pillowed her head on his arm and hummed a song he had always sung for Charlotte when she'd been very little.

He spent the morning trying to cool Lisbon down, which took enormous amounts of water. But he had to risk it, if his plan didn't work, they were dead anyway.

She woke up in the late afternoon, and Jane breathed a sigh of relief. He helped her to sit up, supporting her with his body, before he lifted her on his arms and carried her to the window.

"I can walk on my own, Jane," she growled weakly, and the sound of her cop-voice almost made him shout out with gratitude.

He put her down and showed her the tank.

"Do you see the hatch, Lisbon?" he said, enthusiasm coursing through him, "Any chance you can shoot it off its hinges with two bullets- at the exact moment I tell you to?"

He saw her narrowing her eyes, trying to fight back the fever in order to get a clear vision.

"Sure," she said eventually, "I never miss a target. Why?"

He smiled at her.

"Trust me, Lisbon… it might get us out of here."

He sat down with her again and spent the next hour nursing her fragile strength, making her drink lots of water, cradling her in his arms, frequently looking at her watch.

He was unbearably excited when they stood in front of the window.

Almost six o'clock. He took a deep breath.

"Take aim." He said softly, and Lisbon raised the gun, pushing the muzzle between the bars, "wait for my sign."

He put his arms around her body to stabilize her.

"No touching," she whispered, "I'll lose my aim, so hands off."

He smiled and put up his hands in surrender, listening intently for any strange sound from the outside. There- the distant noise of an approaching car. He wanted to jump up and down with glee but got a grip fast.

"On my mark." He said, and Lisbon cocked the safety, the clicking sound deafening in the tense silence.

The humming of the car got louder, and Jane could tell when it made the last, crucial bend.

He noticed that Lisbon could hardly stand any longer, but it was too late to worry.

"Now!" he yelled, and Lisbon shot both bullets in rapid succession.

The effect was different from what he had intended, but hey- he was flexible here.

The hatch flew off its hinges as if a massive load of TNT had exploded behind it, gallons and gallons of water pouring onto the street. The flood was so strong that quite a bit of it ran into the little window to their cell, and Jane pulled Lisbon back in case the water was fetid.

He returned to the window, clutching the bars, a steady waterfall still pouring down in front of him, everything wet, soaked.

He saw the police car slowing down. Stop completely. After a few seconds, the two uniformed policemen got out, wearing guns and sunglasses, their car doors clapping shut behind them.

And Jane started to scream for all he was worth.

Xxxxxxxxxx

When Lisbon woke up, she was surrounded by darkness and beeping machines. Her head hurt, but she blurrily remembered what had happened after the tank exploded. People rushing into the basement, her tongue too heavy to speak.

Jane holding her hand in the ambulance. Examinations, X-rays, and at some point, he had vanished. Jane hated hospitals, she knew that, so he would have taken the first chance to escape, of course.

She had no idea where he was at the moment, and unwelcome tears sprang to her eyes. All the crying-stuff had lost its cleansing effect, now she just wished she could stop.

For all she knew Jane could be long gone, hunting Red John, and now that he actually knew his face, could connect the fake identity of the CBI-agent with what he had learned about the killer, it should be possible to get him.

Jane would kill him and go into hiding- or to prison.

She felt cold and helpless, her strength drained from the lonely fight. What would it feel like to live without him?

She didn't need to imagine it. She knew. She had already spent six months without him when he had tried to lure Red John into his trap, ending up having sex with the killer's minion. Every day had felt like torture then. It would be just like this all over again.

Her head throbbed violently, but she was glad to feel anything at all next to the ache in her heart, the silly longing that would mark the rest of her life. She didn't resent it, she was ready. Maybe you did only get one chance for true love.

Jane had had Angela. And she had had Jane. Even if it had just been for a short while- he'd been with her. Real, part of her life. She should be grateful that she'd been allowed this short time. It would be hers forever, and nobody could take it from her.

She watched the IV, slowly dripping a clear liquid into her veins, and just like that, the tears started falling.

I wish you luck, Patrick Jane, and don't do anything stupid. I wish that you can let go and be happy again.

Wherever you are now- I wish there would come a time when you can be safe and happy.

TBC

_Next chapter up TOMORROW! Yes, it's already written and beta-read, so I can promise you this chapter in 24 hours! SEE YOU THEN and: THANKS FOR THE ENCOURAGEMENT!_


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

„We know his face and a lot of personal information," Cho said slowly, „ we already searched his office, and there was a myriad of clues that could lead us to his whereabouts. You totally surprised him with your escape, he made a big mistake not to kill you instantly. It was just too tempting to make you watch Lisbon die. He really wanted you to kill her, or at least be powerless to help her. He should have known you would find a way."

Jane nodded, sitting on his couch, a cup of tea in his hands.

"He fooled us anyway," he said softly, "can you believe how close he's been all the time? I bet he had quite a laugh about me."

"Well, he's not laughing now," Cho shrugged," you totally ruined his act."

Jane nodded again, but he didn't feel any better. Lisbon was in hospital, still fighting against the pneumonia. The doctor had told him it had been a close call, although the antibiotics were working. She would make it, be safe.

But the killer was still free, and he couldn't ignore the fact. Coldness was spreading inside of him, covering every nerve ending until he felt numb and enraged at the same time.

Red John had fooled him all those years, when he had always believed to be the smartest person in the room. What was he if he couldn't even be that?

Cho sat down next to him, and Jane startled a little. The stoic agent had never done that before.

"As I said, we will get him," Cho said, "I have no doubt about it. But of course, you might want to try on your own. I think you're better equipped than we are, you might be faster, more effective. Of course, you could die trying, but so could he. The final battle you always envisioned. Romantic, isn't it? Lisbon stands on the other side. She is in hospital alone, and I bet she believes you gone, doing just that- hunting Red John until one of you is dead- or you both are. Won't make her happy, to say the least. She loves you more than her own life- one of the few mistakes she ever made, but an important one."

Jane smiled sadly, feeling the tears pool in his eyes.

"And what do you suggest I should do now?" he asked, taking care to sound aloof and blasé.

Cho shrugged again.

"Take your pick," he said, "whom do you want to follow- Red John, or Teresa Lisbon? It's a simple choice."

Jane snorted.

"Lisbon is a good friend, Cho, but I don't love her- not like that."

Cho looked at him, and suddenly, he started smiling. Not a quick, fleeting smile like the ones he showed on occasion, but a big, blinding one, as if he'd just heard the most hilarious thing in the world.

"No," he chuckled, "of course you don't."

He got up and walked to his desk, starting to work on the overlarge pile of paperwork. Jane's eyes followed him before he looked at Grace and Rigsby, who both smiled gently at him. They were careful with him, although he'd only been a little dehydrated when he'd been rescued. He'd hardly spent more than an hour inside the hospital.

But they were the only family he had, and their concern was the only source of warmth beside Lisbon's tender care for him.

He tried to swallow around the big lump in his throat and recalled her face in his mind. Truth was, he missed her. Two days since he'd seen her in the ambulance, and every second without her seemed torturous, endless.

A part of him desperately wanted things to return to normal, wanted to solve a boring, predictable case, using the free capacities of his mind to banter with Lisbon. Wanted to return to the place he secretly called home.

He swallowed the rest of his tea, took a deep breath and got up.

Xxxxxxxxxx

He aimlessly strolled through the flower shop, clueless about what he was looking for, and that was something that seldom happened.

He felt as insecure as an untried schoolboy choosing the bouquet for his prom date. He winced, his heart sinking when an enthusiastic young woman approached him on a vigorous stride.

"Hello, sir," she beamed, "looking for something special for the queen of your heart?"

He almost groaned.

"Actually, no," he said with a nonchalant smile that came to him without effort after years of practice, "it's just for a friend, she's… sick, in hospital, so I guess something cheerfully colored would be nice."

The young woman started babbling, indicating flowers left and right, telling him a million things about species and matching colors and ribbons and the hopeful language of the flowers…

Jane watched his reflection in the huge mirror at the back of the shop, not listening at all.

He looked old. Worn. Hopeless. As if his life was over and he was just waiting for fate to finish him off. A hot pang of longing pierced his heart. Whom was he kidding? Red John had done nothing but made his life unbearable. Sure the killer had laughed about him. Because Jane had willingly handed power over, had stopped living altogether. He was the perfect proof that Red John was BETTER. That he could do whatever he wanted, destroy people's hearts and souls in a myriad of ways. The master of destruction.

Red John had been the ugliness that had marked his existence. Had colored every niche, every crevice inside his heart, even his beautiful memories of his family.

Every little spot. Except one.

She had touched him with her warmth, her gentleness, right from the beginning. Her goodness had granted him relief, had allowed him to take a deep breath when he'd been short of suffocating. Where she was had been his home even if nobody else wanted to have him. She had loved him although he had never, ever given anything back.

And now, standing in this little flower-shop staring at his own face, he realized that he had stopped giving Red John his first and last thought of the day long ago.

He blinked. He hadn't even noticed, but it was Lisbon he thought of when he woke up, her face rising from the depths of his soul in the space between sleep and wakefulness. And it had been for quite some time.

Suddenly, he felt lonely and weepy, his heart aching like an open wound in his chest.

He was a coward, a petty, miserable, spineless, unworthy jerk. He dug his fingers into his thighs to cope with the hot flood of emotions which almost floored him then and there.

"Excuse me," he interrupted the girl's flow of words, his voice sounding slightly hoarse to his own ears, "I changed my mind. I'll take fifty long-stemmed, dark red roses, please."

The woman's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Those are 10 dollars each!" she gasped.

"Uhm…." Jane mused, "…in that case, I changed my mind again… give me a hundred long-stemmed, dark red roses, please. I don't want to look cheap."

She crossed her arms in front of her chest and frowned at him.

"Certain that she's just a friend?"

"Honestly," Jane drawled, "no. Not as certain as I thought I was ten minutes ago."

The florist smiled.

"Yeah, tell me about it. A hundred of those beauties take a while- have a seat, please."

About an hour later, Jane left the shop with a bunch of flowers so huge it got him the attention of every single passer-by.

He drove to Sacramento's most expensive confectioners next, taking his time searching for the perfect box of chocolates. He finally chose the largest one he could find, bright red, heart-shaped. Seemed fitting given the fact that he felt almost nauseous with longing and pain, butterflies fluttering in his stomach like they never had.

He walked up to the cashier to pay.

The young man looked at the giant box, then at Jane. He chew his gum thoughtfully.

"Fucked up big time, huh?"

Jane smiled.

"You have no idea."

He drove to CBI-headquarters and picked up a few things, then raced to the hospital.

His heart was in his throat when he reached the correct ward and walked up to the counter. The nurse looked up at him, her eyes stern, until she saw the huge bunch of roses and the enormous box of chocolates. Her face became soft and gentle, dissolving into a soothing smile.

"Whom are you visiting, young man?"

"Agent Teresa Lisbon," he said, smiling back.

"Room nr. 9," she said, "she might be sleeping."

"I'll be quiet," Jane winked and started to walk down the aisle.

He felt like a dead man walking. Would she even want to see him? He had put her through so much, he couldn't even think about it without cringing. Right now, he wanted nothing as much as hold her, as close as he could. His whole skin seemed to itch for her touch.

His insides felt liquid, hot, raw.

He stopped in front of Nr.9, taking a deep breath. But Patrick Jane wasn't a staller, and this time, he wouldn't run away.

He opened the door as quietly as possible, and every single doubt flew away the minute he saw her. She was asleep, looking peaceful and plain adorable with her little fist in front of her lips.

Jane wondered about the wet feeling on his cheeks until he realized he was crying.

She was alive. She was still here. It wasn't too late to show her how sorry he was.

He got a vase from the bathroom and arranged the roses inside it, putting them on her nightstand, along with the box of chocolates.

Then he pulled a chair next to her bed and sat down, watching her, doing nothing about his tears. He was fine. And at this very moment, nothing hurt.

He thought about his life. What should he do now? You just have to choose whom to follow. Red John. Or Teresa Lisbon.

He wanted to sink into her embrace, right now, put his face against her chest, forget about everything else.

He sobbed, and the sound seemed to shake something loose inside of him, made him unravel completely. He swallowed drily, again and again, until he felt his self-control returning. Maybe he should take a nap, he hadn't slept much last night. Or the night before that.

Lisbon stirred, stretching her small body, still drowsy from sleeping. Her eyes blinked open and fell on him, and her slow smile was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. And highly contagious. He smiled back so brightly it seemed to split the corners of his mouth.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," she answered, "I thought you were gone for good this time."

Chasing Red John. She didn't say it, but she didn't need to.

"Yes," he sighed, "Cho said as much. I'm sorry. I never wanted you to worry, Lisbon."

She nodded, and her gaze wandered to her nightstand, eyebrows rising when she saw the roses and chocolates.

"Have you lost your mind, Jane?" she chuckled.

"Nope," he answered, "it's not the mind."

"What's that?" she asked and pointed to the little paper bag next to his chair.

He didn't know what to say for a moment, so he simply handed it to her, closing his eyes when she looked inside.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxx

When she peeked inside the little paper bag, she found one of his shirts. Shepulled it out and looked at him, slightly puzzled.

He looked embarrassed all of a sudden and averted his gaze. The slight blush on his face was adorable, she had never seen him blushing.

"It's the shirt I wore yesterday, " he said, "you know… people in love usually like the scent of their beloved, it calms them, gives them hope, makes them sleep better. So, I thought… did you know that the nose is the most direct way to influence the limbic system, the place where your emotions happen in your brain?"

She smiled gently and pushed her nose into the soft fabric. It smelled exactly like him, clean, male, the unique fragrance of his skin unmistakable. She sighed in contentment.

"Well," she heard him say, "maybe I was assuming too much, so if you don't… I mean I can just take it and…"

"No." she interrupted, her face still nuzzling his shirt. "It's wonderful, thank you."

She couldn't believe he was here, had brought her roses, chocolates, his shirt. She was dizzy and overwhelmed, and it was hard to keep the tears at bay. Her skin was still hot from the fever, but she was already better, still permanently sleepy, but the awful headache was gone.

She felt tired and exhausted all of a sudden, so she took his shirt and put it under her head.

"Will you stay?" she asked hopefully.

He hesitated for a second, but nodded eventually.

"Until you fall asleep again." He said softly and took her hand.

She nodded and closed her eyes, felt the fever still blazing through her blood, his cooling fingertips brushing her face, his heady fragrance inside her nose.

She took a deep breath and fell asleep just like that.

Xxxxxxxxxx

She looked so peaceful in sleep, her nose buried in his shirt. He swallowed drily.

He should go. Definitely. He had to pursue Red John, didn't he? After almost a decade of keeping up the chase, after existing merely for his revenge, he couldn't just call it a day now, dammit. He couldn't.

She sniffled slightly in her sleep, and he went immediately on alert, bringing his face closer to hers, trying to detect any signs of a nightmare before it got too bad to stop it. But she calmed down as soon as he pressed a soft kiss on her forehead. He exhaled in relief.

She looked so innocent when she was asleep, the tough cop gone from her features, only the beautiful woman remaining who knew how to take hurt like no second one. All the things she had endured for him, given up to support him. He could never repay her.

But in the gloomy darkness of her hospital room, surrounded by the beeping lights of the monitors, he suddenly realized that he wanted to try.

He kissed her cheek, as soft as a child's beneath his lips.

He sat back in his chair and almost didn't move for another hour, thinking. When tiredness overwhelmed him, he put his head down on the mattress, directly next to her hand, and napped for a while.

Her hand in his hair woke him up.

She looked better, her face not quite as pale, the dark rings beneath her eyes already diminishing. He touched her forehead- the fever was receding, the antibiotics doing their job.

She smiled at him, still slightly sleepy, stretching once more to chase the slumber out of her limbs.

"Hey again," she drawled.

In this instant, everything became clear, and all the questions were gone. The smile that was spreading on his features felt pure and perfect.

"Hey, my sweet," he said, rubbing his thumb over her lips, "I love you."

TBC

_Awwwwwwww… I definitely needed that… this feels more and more as if it is a story I write just for me, it's so much fun to concoct- but of course I'm glad if you like it, too ;D. Okay, what's missing? Well, since it's a Rothelena-story, we should try to earn that M-rating once more, shouldn't we? Will do that next chapter!_


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

As soon as she stepped over the threshold of her silent, empty apartment, the strain of the past days seemed to fall away and Teresa Lisbon could breathe again.

She dropped her bag on the floor, still feeling the slight tiredness the pneumonia had left her with. But she felt considerably fine, really, and the longing for silence and solitude had become unbearable after the endless days in the hospital. She had needed to get out, so as soon as the fever had vanished for good, she had released herself.

Jane hadn't been there to pick her up, but how could he when she had told him nothing of her plans to leave the hospital?

She was afraid to overwhelm him, assume too much, suffocate him with her affection. He needed space. And she would do what she always had done: take care of him.

Tenderness washed over her, accompanied by a fierce longing that knocked the breath from her lungs, just a moment of churning emotions, trembling through her veins.

She wouldn't whine now when she never had in her life, wouldn't become ungrateful and greedy. She knew it was still hard for him, the emotions, the caring, she could read the pain the suppressed memories caused him, could read it on his face, in his haunted eyes. She would accept what he could give, and if he had to break out from time to time, she would just let him go.

But truth was: she already missed him a little.

He had told her he loved her, and this time, he had been true to his word. He had visited her every day these past two weeks, bringing her personal things (which he had fetched from her apartment after picking her lock, the impish little devil), distracting her with funny stories and card tricks, holding her hand until she fell asleep.

She smiled.

It still felt strange to be in love like this. But it wasn't a bad feeling at all. Funny how you never really knew love until it stared you in the face. And then it always was far too late to run.

Her stomach growled, and she groaned in exasperation. She'd almost forgotten- she had to take care of her own food again, and she wasn't looking forward to it. She was a hopeless cook, but eating had never been especially important for her to begin with. She ate to keep her muscles working, had never been much of a gourmet.

She walked through the cool living room, noticing that the air condition was on- Jane. He had done her laundry, the little piles of clean clothes, expertly folded, sitting on the dining room table. She grinned. For a man who had been a lone wolf for almost a decade, pining for nothing but death and revenge, he was doing marvelously.

She looked into the fridge and was almost grateful to find it empty- after close to two weeks of absence, everything inside would have worn a greenish pelt by now. She was sure Jane had taken care of that, too.

She grabbed a bottle of water and put the cold glass against her forehead. It was still stifling hot outside, and she gulped down the water in breathless relief.

She slowly walked to the bathroom, shedding her clothes one by one, leaving a trail of garments along her way. The cool shower felt wonderful, and she let the water wash away the grime of dark memories along with the dust of the day. The fever had left, and it felt wonderful to be the mistress of her own mind once again, the cottony haze of delirium nothing but a fleeting shudder long gone.

She almost didn't want to get dressed again, but after some thoughtful minutes in front of her closet, she chose a tank top and comfortable black cotton panties, which could almost pass for shorts.

When she was about to walk down the stairs, she heard someone rummaging around in her kitchen.

The feelings chased each other inside her stomach. Longing and delight flared like a scorching flame, for of course she knew who it was. The slight pang of annoyance that he had picked her lock again. Worry was quick to follow. Red John was still on the run, so what if she was wrong?

She walked into her bedroom and fetched the loaded Glock from her nightstand. Better safe than sorry.

But as soon as she entered the kitchen, she saw a shock of unmistakable golden curls above her counter… he was obviously filling her fridge with groceries.

"You know, Jane," she said and wasn't surprise that he didn't even startle, "I give up. You need your own key. I don't want you to pick my lock every time you want to come in here."

He chuckled and got up, closing the door of the fridge with a slight thud.

"You didn't open the door when I knocked," he shrugged, "and seriously, Lisbon- my own key? That's a frightening symptom of trust, coming from you… maybe we should celebrate this. How are you, besides unbelievably beautiful, I mean?"

She smiled, feeling deeply and truly flattered.

"Tired. I hope that stops soon, it's getting on my nerves."

He shook his head and started to walk around the counter.

Xxxxxxxxxx

She looked so good he couldn't stop staring at her. Her wet dark hair framed her face, her lips red and pouty from the undoubtedly cold shower she had taken. Her skimpy clothes hugged her figure, and an almost uncomfortable bout of desire raced all through his system.

He still hated losing control, but with her, it couldn't be helped. It still scared him how completely she got him, wriggled beneath his defenses with maddening ease.

He knew the feeling, he thought with a hot rush of pain. He'd felt the same with Angela.

He knew he should touch Lisbon, should give her physical comfort as often as he could. But he didn't trust his self-control with her, and she was still exhausted from her sickness. He should be a gentleman and play nice.

His noble intentions were lost when she raised her arms and pushed her hair back, looking like a nymph from an ancient fresco.

He swallowed drily. It took him only one step to get close enough to pull her into his arms, her body so small and fragile he would have been afraid to hurt her if he hadn't known her for what she was- the bravest soul he had ever met. He felt her strong muscles ripple beneath her cool skin and smiled against her hair.

"You're still affected by the pneumonia," he whispered, "I guess you will sleep a lot over the next few days, and that's fine. Are you on sick leave?"

"Not for long," she breathed against his shirt, the rush of warmth sending goose bumps all over his body, "I'm going to march into headquarters Monday morning and correct that."

Jane sighed.

"I thought as much. Then let me pamper you this weekend, at least. Why didn't you tell me that you planned on leaving the hospital today?"

She let her lips wander over his jawline, gently using her tongue on his skin, it made him hot, and he could feel himself harden against her stomach.

"I didn't plan on anything," she said softly, nipping on his earlobe, causing his erection to grow these last inches, "it was more of a spontaneous decision. The moment the nurse came in to ask me about my bowel movements, I knew the time to leave had come."

He laughed softly.

"Do you want me to cook you something for dinner?"

"Well," she answered, blowing against his ear, "to be honest, I don't want FOOD at the moment."

She let her fingers glide into the open V of his shirt, and he almost got a stroke when she rubbed his nipples into tight little peaks.

"Teresa," he croaked, "I don't know if this is such a splendid idea, I don't want to put a strain on you so short after your recovery…"

"Okay," she said, "you can be on top."

She kissed his lips, her tongue invading his mouth with an insistency that allowed no further discussion. She tasted wonderful, warm and sweet and uniquely like his Lisbon. He framed her face to stop her from pulling back before he was ready, but what if he would never be ready, if her kiss was a lifeline he couldn't do without? He guessed he just would have to cope, then.

Her hand wandered to his raging hard-on, gently massaging his contours until he felt himself growing out of his waistband. He groaned for all he was worth.

"I'll lead the way," she smiled against his lips and grabbed his hand, tugging until he followed her up the stairs and into her bedroom.

Despite her promise that he could be on top she pushed him down onto her mattress so that he lay flat on his back, her thighs straddling his hips. He sighed with relief when she opened his belt and fly, freeing his aching length from its uncomfortable confines.

"I swore to myself I wouldn't pressure you," she said softly, her eyes huge and not quite so innocent, "but I can't help myself."

He smiled at her, rubbing his thumb over her adorable, pouting lips.

"Don't worry, love. I'm sure I will suffer horribly, but I will try not to scream too loud."

She slapped his chest, but her smile was sweet and soft. He urged to lick it off her lips, just to find out if it tasted as wonderful as it looked.

She started to unbutton his vest and shirt, pausing again and again to caress the naked skin she revealed. His cock started to throb with impatience, and he bit down on his bottom lip to stop from crying out.

He was so responsive to her, she gave him feelings like he'd never experienced before. He'd never been an especially passionate lover, but he was older now, had suffered more, been through so much he could hardly find the connection to the cheerful, carefree young man who had fallen in love with Angela. Time and misery had given him an urgency that still felt strange to him, but when Lisbon's hands touched his cock, a hunger roared through his body that rendered him breathless.

Her touch was attentive, gentle, but he reacted like a wild beast, his strong fingers clutching her upper arms to stop her, make her go on, he didn't know what he needed most any longer.

She straightened her lithe body and pulled the tank top over her head.

"Patrick," she whispered, and her using his first name still made him feel vulnerable, treasured, raw, "I love you."

Lust and tenderness crashed down on him like a flash flood, her hand squeezing his length tighter, making ecstasy surge through his system, he felt wild and ruthless and pushed her onto her back, covering her body with his. He could have ripped her panties off, but he wanted this to take longer, to make her squirm just as he had, show her what she did to him.

He pulled her panties down her legs, breathing hot air onto her wet sex. It filled him with delight how much she wanted him and he spread her legs roughly, licking over her folds so slowly he knew it would drive her insane. Her body arched beneath him, and he thrust his tongue into her, shivering with delight when her delicious sweetness hit his taste buds.

"Teresa," he whispered, making sure that his lips vibrated against her clit, "mine."

She was his one chance for normalcy, and he had no doubt that she was the only living being who was able to tolerate living with him for the rest of his life. He'd never expected to experience this kind of love again. He felt humbled.

He framed her clit with his lips and squeezed gently, his tongue rubbing insistently, until she convulsed and came so hard he could feel it against his mouth. He closed his eyes, savored the ripples of her body, her cries, prolonging her climax with measured licks and kisses.

He pushed up, supporting his weight on his outstretched arms, and pushed inside her in a single, deep stroke. Her still clenching muscles hugged him like a glove, and he gasped, her outcry tingling inside his ears. He felt how much he stretched her, and it drove him mad, heightened the wildness inside him until he felt truly dangerous. Her fingernails scratched his back, the slight pain making him shiver.

He looked into her eyes, didn't want to hurt her, but she stared at him, her eyes glazed with lust.

"Hard." She mouthed, and he lost it completely.

His thrusts made her bounce from the impact, again and again, he felt the heat of her core around him, his cock entering her as deep as he could go every time he surged into her. He was much too big for her, had never taken a woman this tight, but she urged him on, her breathless little gasps fueling his lusts until he saw everything through the haze of his desire.

His hips slammed against hers, pushing her up the mattress until she almost hit the headrest and he grabbed her waist to hold her in place for his ruthless strokes.

"Yes," she groaned, "just like this…"

And she came, her contractions making her even tighter. He screamed the almost painful myriad of sensations into the air, tears streaming down his face.

He impossibly picked up speed, slamming inside her full force, his skin prickling with the need to come, to lose this final scrap of control. He could almost taste a violent release on the back of his tongue, every pounding thrust brought him closer, until he knew a single touch would push him over.

Lisbon brushed her fingernails over his nipples, and his whole body clenched.

It felt as if his insides melted, his cock erupting in long, voluminous jets of seed. It felt so good to fill her, every single time, his offering for his mistress as much as a branding of ownership. It was the right she generously granted him, and that she accepted him like this was reason enough to live.

She spread her legs even wider to receive more of him, and he was amazed about the amounts of semen he spent, his stomach muscles contracting until it hurt, until he felt drained and empty and so sated the feeling spread through every cell.

He could hardly gulp enough air into his lungs, his breath harsh and panting. He didn't want to pull back, didn't want to leave the delicious heat of her body, but he couldn't strain her body with his weight, so he wrapped his arms around her and rolled over until he was beneath her, his semi-hard cock still firmly embedded inside of her.

She was breathing hard, and he was suddenly worried.

"Are you okay, love?" he whispered anxiously, gently stroking her tousled hair.

She raised her head and looked at him, her stark green, expressive eyes huge in her pale face.

"I'm fine, "she said, "that was absolutely wonderful. Leaving the hospital was one of the better ideas I had."

He chuckled and sighed in contentment.

"Patrick?" she said.

"Hmmm?"

"Can I talk to you?"

His eyes snapped open.

"You know you always can, Teresa."

She hesitated for a second, and he felt a subtle tension running through her body.

"Can we make a deal?" she said eventually, "I don't want you to sleep in the attic. And I absolutely don't want you to sleep in your house in Malibu. Can't you sleep here or in my office? Your couch is okay, too. And if you need time alone, you go to a nice little motel, where you are warm and safe and not surrounded by moths and dust and death?"

He let his fingertips wander over her face, learning every inch of skin by heart. How he loved her. How completely she filled his heart, letting light and warmth inside until all the cold and darkness had no space any longer.

"I don't need time alone," he whispered, "I just need you. Please- never think that I see the closeness between us as a complication I have to tolerate if I want your love. I want it, Teresa. I want to be close all the time, and when we're apart, I miss you. I have missed you even when I didn't know how much I loved you. Some things may be hard, some difficult. I'm not an easy man to live with. But never believe that I feel better when I'm alone, that I don't want to be with you, my love. There's nothing I want more."

She looked at him and kissed him softly, her warm lips on his eliciting a groan of bone-deep satisfaction from him.

"Where do you want to live?" she asked after they had parted, breathlessly.

"At the seaside," he answered, "with you."

"Are you sure you don't want separate apartments for the time being?"

He smiled at her.

"I'm old," he chuckled, "and after ten years of solitude, I feel as if I've been alone all my life. And be careful, agent Lisbon: in love, I'm rather possessive."

She smiled, the gesture as bright as the sun.

"I think I might like that better than I thought before I met you."

"Dinner?" he asked.

"If you insist." She groaned.

He made her sit down on her couch where she could watch him, not wanting her to do anything. She looked delicious in his shirt and nothing else, just staring at her made him happy. Nothing else mattered. He felt the need to protect her whisper at the back of his mind. They weren't safe. Their world wasn't an easy one as long as they were pursued by a killer. But right now, they were here. She was with him. And that was all he needed.

He had just started to fry the chicken when his cell phone ringed. He still wore in his pants pocket. He opened it.

"Hey, Cho," he said.

"Jane?" Cho's calm voice was surrounded by an enormous rush of noise. Jane felt his stomach clench instinctively. "Are you with the boss?"

"Yes." Jane said tonelessly. "Lisbon is right here."

"Put me on loudspeaker, please."

Jane obeyed, his fingers trembling while he pressed the keys. Lisbon sensed the change in his mood and got up, her huge eyes staring at him.

"Boss?" Cho said, "You listening?"

"Yes, Cho," she said, still looking at Jane intently, "I can hear you."

"We managed to catch Red John, just a short distance from the Mexican border. To make a long story short: he put up a fight. Rigsby shot him."

Jane felt his vision dim, the outlines of the world around him becoming blurry. He sat down on the floor, simply where he was, leaning against the oven door, trying to catch his breath.

"He said something before he died," Cho continued, "a message for you. He said: 'Tell Jane, this is my wedding gift for him.' I thought I should tell you. It's over. His corpse is zipped into the body bag just now."

"Thank you, Cho," Lisbon said, taking the phone from Jane's numb fingers, her voice so firm and strong when his world was tumbling, "I'll be in on Monday, I expect your report then."

He didn't hear Cho's reply. She flipped the phone shut, and it was silent.

Jane felt nauseous and shaky. Red John was dead. His nemesis, the enemy who had formed his existence, had filled his thoughts for almost a decade was gone. He tried to find a hint of elation, relief, but he couldn't find anything but dizziness and emptiness.

Emotions came back he had pushed away all these years. The birth of his child, her first cry. Angela's laughter on their wedding day. How he had kissed Charlotte goodnight after she had split her lip fighting with a neighboring boy, her face grimy with dirt and blood, but she had refused to let anybody touch. Only his gentle kiss on her cheek- she had allowed that.

Tears were streaming down his face, and he shook uncontrollably. Lisbon sat down next to him and wrapped her arm around his shoulders, and he was just grateful for her touch, her closeness, her warm breath on his face. He put his face against her slim shoulder and inhaled her scent, wetting her shirt with his tears.

She was silent until he had regained a modicum of calm, and by then, it was completely dark. He noticed that she had taken the skillet off the burner. He pressed closer to her.

"Are you mad that you missed your revenge?" She said, and he understood that she'd been scared of this, scared that it would imprint the anger into his soul.

He was silent for a while. He exhaled and shrugged.

"No," he said, "it's good that he's dead. Nothing more. I would have been mad if I had missed you for him."

His mind felt freed, and he felt more tears spill while he remembered the good times, the precious days he had spent with Angela and Charlotte, the flood of his past streaming out of him like a river of pent up hurt. He could breathe after all, could connect with a part of him that had been closed up, lonely and barred.

"I promised you dinner," he said after endless hours of bittersweet memories had returned like a long lost episode of his life. He had cherished them so much. Had loved them more than his life.

But Teresa Lisbon had brought the urge back, the will to persevere, to live beyond vengeance and hate.

"I'm not hungry," she replied, "let's go to bed instead. Let me hold you."

He smiled through his tears, touching her warm face with his cool fingertips.

He had no objections.

**THE END**

_I hope you liked this! The last chapter was hard to write for me, because my mind was SO occupied with all the spoilers running amok in my head… I admit that I'm not too keen on this attraction-thingy between Jane and Loralei, although I almost saw something like that coming._

_I'm intent on staying calm because spoilers can be and often are deceiving, but knowing myself, I won't be especially successful… I think I won't manage much more than a few soothing one-shots until the season starts. I had this moment last hiatus, too: at some point, I simply was too nervous for plot-heavy stories. I'm very nervous now, so I think I need some harmless PWPs now… or something like that._

_Thank you for all the wonderful feedback! I'm glad you're still reading my stories!_


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